Absolution
by Aife Bisclaveret
Summary: Confession is good for the soul but what good is telling someone my sins be if I'm not sorry that I committed them. A short NW story.


Disclaimer: The Night World is the property of L.J. Smith as are any of the characters you recognise like Thierry, Hannah, Lupe etc.  
  
Spoilers: None  
  
Author's Notes: Just a short story that popped into my head in the last couple of days, I hope you like it.  
  
  
  
My hand hovered over the church's large, metal doorknob. Now I'm not a person known for hesitation, I normally jump in headfirst and worry about the rocks if I hit them, but God and me we have some issues. Well I don't have issues with him but he sure as hell should have some with me, at least if he's the God I believe in he should have some with me. Sure he's a forgiving God but he can't give forgiveness to someone who doesn't feel remorse; I might want absolution but it's not because I regret what I've done and if I was in the same position tomorrow I'd do the exact same thing again. Confession is good for the soul, or so they tell me, but what good would telling someone my sins be if I'm not sorry that I committed them.  
  
So where did that leave me? Standing there in front of a church waiting for God to strike me down for having the gall to enter his house. You mightn't believe that but I've seen enough in this year to know that anything is possible, well almost anything, I don't think we'll be seeing Ireland win the World Cup anytime soon but I wouldn't have been too surprised if a huge bolt of lightning had appeared out of the clear blue sky and sizzled me.  
  
Honestly I've never been all that religious; I've always believed, I was just never great at the practicising; nothing like knowing you're damned to strengthen your faith in God.  
  
The door was fairly solid, made from a good strong wood and stained a very dark brown, still it opened before me with a gentle push. Inside was cool, the way churches always seem to be unless there's a big cermony on, like a wedding or First Communion, then people are ready to pass out from the heat. Anyway inside it was cool and dark a nice change from the Indian summer heat outside, though I was just happy the holy water hadn't started to boil when I blessed myself.  
  
I genuflected before the altar and scurried into the first pew. As I knelt the strap of my gun holster rubbed against my shoulder reminding me that I was probably committing a grievous sin at that moment, carrying a weapon of violence and death into God's house. A year ago I'd never seen a gun outside of the television now I carry one everywhere; I sleep with one under my pillow and take more baths than showers so that I can leave one on the edge of the tub.  
  
Sometimes I wonder if what happened is really what has made me this way or if it was something about me, if most people would have reacted as I have done or if there is something in me that made me take the path of violence? Have I always been a violent person?  
  
It doesn't seem to matter all that much now, what is done, is done and in the end what will come, will come. Does that mean I think our futures are set, that we all have a path to walk that we can't deviate from, in truth, I don't know. What I do know is that this day a year ago my future was set, if the events of that day had never happened I would be somewhere else today; I would be someone else today.  
  
It's times like then that you learn what kind of person you really are, once I thought that I was someone who would seek peace and justice, but I'm not, I'm a bloodthirsty, vengeful person and the God's honest truth is I'm glad I am. Revenge will never bring back those I've lost but that's not what it's about; it's about making those who did it feel what they made us feel. Just call me karma's happy helper.  
  
Except now, now I'm almost done and I'm so close, just one more, and I guess it's about time for the sweetness to give way to that bitter after- taste everyone talks about. Maybe it already has, I hardly recognise myself anymore; perhaps the worst thing they could do to me wasn't to kill me but to make me like them, and they have, in more ways than one.  
  
I smelt the priest before I saw him, that's the way it always is now; I could smell the thin layer of sweat that covered his skin, the scent of washing powder from his clothes, the smell of flesh that marked him as human. I smelled like that once, I wish more than anything that I still did.  
  
It took him a few minutes to notice me and I tried my best to make sure that when he did he wouldn't try to approach me. I laid my forehead on my clasped hands and closed my eyes hoping that he wouldn't wish to disturb someone who was deep in prayer.  
  
I don't think I've really prayed for a long time. I think I can actually remember the last time I really prayed; it was the night of the funerals. I'm not even sure if it was praying more like begging, pleading take this curse from me and why didn't you let me die with the others. I might have prayed the first night I killed too, as I broke into the house with a gun and silver plated bullets, I might have asked that there would be one left for me when the night was over.  
  
The priest hovered around the confessional; obviously he thought I was in need of absolution. Was he right, was that why I'd come to the church, to cleanse my soul if I still have one? I thought I'd gone there to pay my respects to my family; it was their anniversary after all, but maybe I'd gone there looking for forgiveness even though I know I don't deserve it.  
  
Bless me Father for I have sinned and tomorrow I will sin again. 


End file.
